


shell

by C1ytemnestra



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Drabble, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Maybe - Freeform, POV Second Person, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 03:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10235273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C1ytemnestra/pseuds/C1ytemnestra
Summary: You don't deserve who you really want.





	

**Author's Note:**

> maybe to be continued drabble, in which sven is a sad, sad teen  
> this was self indulgent and things that should be expanded on are more than welcome for suggestion

Look in the mirror, shake out your hair. This isn't your mirror; it's cracked, pictures of his ex crumpled by the corner, residue from the tape still on the glass. In any mirror, you still see the same thing. Thin face, too many freckles, the odd birthmark under your lip, messy dirt-brown hair. In any mirror, you see the same worthless face.  
Avert your eyes, comb a hand through your worthless hair. He's still sleeping in his bed; you woke up within an hour from nerves. You can see a rise and fall under the stiff sheets, blanket tossed aside to make the room breathable. You know he won't bring this up again, but you might. You want people to know you're not that pathetic, that you can find someone, at least for a night. It's not to damage his reputation, though that will probably be a side effect. It's an ego boost.  
Stare. Contemplate. Dig your nails into your worthless palms, fingers curling, releasing. Watching him is like a guilt trip; he isn't who you wanted. You can't have who you really want. You don't deserve who you really want.  
Grab your clothes, pull them on. Feel the rumpled fabric catch and elongate on your worthless frame. You need something to do, you need a real distraction. Pale reflections won't do it; he left you hollow, drained, something on a more pathetic level than tearful. You should have left the second he fell asleep. He won't want to wake up and be reminded of what thing he just slept with.  
Grab your watch, catch another glimpse in the mirror. Stare into the hollow, worthless sockets looking back at you, fasten the watch around its worthless wrist. Slip on your shoes, slip out of the house and into the dim starlit street. You prepare to walk the seven miles he drove you here this afternoon, and the three further to your own house. Prepare for a night down the drain, for your worthless legs to be aching by the time you drag yourself into your own bed. No one will question if you miss classes, if you're still in bed halfway through the day, if they even notice your absence. It will be noticed you get home at three in the morning. You're not entirely sure you care.  
Worthless feet, one after the other, drag you down the block; you are a shell.


End file.
